


Faith

by kallistob



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Healing, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Memories, Mostly Fluff, Newt gives Graves a puppy for Christmas, Religion, all was well, puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 10:08:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13144413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/kallistob
Summary: On Christmas Eve, 1926, Percival Graves is locked in a box. He has no room to breathe. No clothes to cover his body. Nobody to hear his prayers.-On Christmas day, 1928, Percival Graves wakes up in a bed. Strong arms are wrapped around his chest. He can feel the soft huffs of breath of his lover on the nape of his neck as he stirs.It is bliss.





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azar443](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/gifts).



> Iamlatefortheassignementiamsorry 
> 
> I hope you like this, friend. Fluff is not my forte, but I tried. Merry Christmas <3

On Christmas Eve, 1926, Percival Graves is locked in a box.

He has no room to breathe. No clothes to cover his body. Nobody to hear his prayers.

Over the course of his life, praying became important to him. When all else failed, he knew he could confide in a higher power and trust God to keep him alive and sane.

During the war, he heard one bedmate say the rosary under his breath as they laid in their bunks at night. Although annoyed at first, with each passing day he learned that men clung to what they could, to keep on living another day. Be it letters from home, cigarettes, alcohol, comfort found in another man’s arms, or religion.  

After a bullet shattered his knee, and he still survived, he asked the chaplain to teach him to pray.

No soft-spoken ‘Our Father in Heaven’ or ‘Hail Mary’ had ever been enough to cure his wounds, but it helps.

It helps now, when despair seeps through to the pores of his skin and poisons him slowly. Loneliness, too. He feels abandoned, cut off from a world that doesn’t even realize he is _there_ , that he exists. He yearns and he mourns all at once.

Tears run down his nose. But even as his voice breaks, even if it feels like nobody is listening, he keeps praying. For anything. For relief. For peace. For company.

He prays to live another day. He prays Grindelwald will be found. He prays for his Aurors, too. Prays for the rookie Grindelwald sent to his death, under the disguise of a routine mission because he’d come to see too much.

 _(The monster had gloated about it afterwards. Tearing Percival apart with the knowledge that his failure had cost an innocent young man his life_.)

He prays for his team, hoping with all his heart that they are all safe, and warm. He prays they find happiness on this day, the 24th of December, even if he is not there to celebrate it with them.

But most of all he prays for himself.

He has lived six months in captivity, and he doesn’t know if he can keep going. He is only human, after all. After everything that had happened, every suffering that had been wrought upon him in body, mind, and soul - he felt as fragile as a bird’s heart. What was left of the man he had been spurned him onwards - relentless, unyielding, determined in his quest to survive.

But he is tired.

He'd fought and fought as much as he could. Raged against the dying of the light. He had done all he could.

All he had left was his faith.

And so, now, he prays.

-

On Christmas day, 1928, Percival Graves wakes up in a bed.

Strong arms are wrapped around his chest. He can feel the soft huffs of breath of his lover on the nape of his neck as he stirs.

It is bliss.

He moves languidly, careful not to wake Newt, sleeping behind him. The bed covers had twisted around them during the night; with a wave of his hand he draws them back over their bodies, smiling when Newt shifts closer to him.

It’s Christmas. Graves’ smile widens at the thought.

Lazy morning be damned - he rolls over to wake Newt up. His lover makes a confused noise at the loss of warmth in his arms, and Percival kisses the tip of his nose to reassure him.

He trails his hand down Newt’s naked arm and feels him shiver, goosebumps breaking over his soft skin. His hair is messy, unruly curls sticking out from all sides. Graves smooths it down and Newt hums happily.

By now, Percival is sure his lover is also awake and only pretending to sleep to have more cuddles. He can work with that. His hand drifts from Newt’s hair to his cheek and he cups it gently, leaning closer to peck those delicious lips.

When he draws back, Newt makes a kissing noise, and Graves laughs before kissing him again. It is slow, and soft, their mouths half open on gentle sighs. They are in no hurry at all. All that matters in that instant is the feeling of having each other close.

Graves rolls on top of him, pressing Newt back into the bed. He smiles into the kiss and when Percival draws back Newt's eyes are open, heavy with sleep. “Morning, love,” he says, the affectionate endearment making Percival’s heart soar.

He kisses Newt eagerly, and the young man laughs. Newt moves them around until he has Graves under him, and he gently suckles Graves’ lower lip before kissing the side of his neck. Percival utterly melts against him, his hands falling from Newt’s shoulders to his own chest. Newt straightens up to better look at him, the bed covers drooping from his shoulder to pool low around his waist.

“Hullo,” Percival huffs, almost shy. “Merry Christ - mmph!”

He gives himself to another kiss, enjoying the weight of Newt’s body above his. When they part he is flushed, his lips pink and swollen with kisses, and just a bit breathless. Newt grins at him.

“Merry Christmas.” The young man hops off the bed, brimming with energy as usual now that he is fully awake. Percival sits up, propping himself up on the pillows at his back. He is quite content simply laying there, watching Newt as he tries to find his scattered clothes through the room.

The younger man gathers his day old shirt on the floor and bring it to his nose, before grimacing. He seems to have a better idea and walks up to Percival’s closet, pulling out one of Percival’s wool jumpers from it.

Percival himself swims in it, yet it is still too small to fit Newt’s frame, not covering the lower half of his body. Percival didn’t care though. Seeing Newt wear his clothes makes the more primal side of him purr in satisfaction.

Newt sports a sheepish, lopsided grin as he then takes a pair of Percival’s boxers and puts them on as well. His legs are still exposed, lean and muscled and dusted with freckles everywhere. Percival _loves_ it. He loves him.

He wants nothing more than to be close to Newt again. He needs it to convince himself that he is not caught in a dream, because surely his life could never be as perfect as this.

He gets up and walks up to Newt, embracing him from behind, eyes falling shut as he inhales deeply, face buried in Newt’s shoulder. He smells good. Like laundry, but also like comfort, like warmth and safety - like home. Newt turns around to return the hug, and Percival’s head fits just perfectly in the crook of his shoulder.

“Love you,” Percival mumbles against him. Like a wave he is overcome by raw emotions, making his heart swell up. He wants to say a thousand things, wants to do a thousand things, wants to give his very being, his very soul to the man who is his, if only to make him understand everything that he feels as he says those words.

Truly, he has known nothing that felt as right as this.

“Love you too,” Newt murmurs back. “Come on now, sleepyhead. I have a gift for you.”

-

Percival steps back from him, curiosity and excitement showing on his features.

He used to be withdrawn, tongue-tied, terrified to talk, after so many months spent in the dark taught that no one cared if he screamed. He used to protect himself like a pearl inside a shell, which Newt spent months learning to crack to uncover the richness contained within.

Now, Percival is open like a beacon of light, glowing so bright Newt cannot contain it within the palms of his hands. He is honest, in tune with his emotions, in tune with others, and it only makes him more beautiful. Newt knows him, inside and out, and the connection the two men share is what operas are made of.

Newt nudges him, drawing Percival back to the present.

Once Percival is dressed in a loose bathrobe, Newt takes him by the hand, and leads him into the suitcase sitting in one corner of the room. He opens it with a flick of his finger, goes down the ladder first, offers Percival his hand again when he steps onto the shed’s floor. He opens the door leading outside, and Percival follows him cautiously to a large, new area covered in grass and a single, shaded tree.

“I hope you will like him,” Newt says, looking nervous. He lets go of Percival’s hand to bring two fingers to his mouth, and a whistle pierces the air, making Percival’s ears ring.

“Like him?” He asks in alarm as Newt whistles again. “Newt, what did you do?”

“You’ll see,” Newt says. “Ah, there he is!”

And from the shadows of the tree comes a small creature, running towards them with all the eagerness and clumsiness of a... puppy?

Percival’s eyes widen. The dog trips a couple of times over its own hind legs on the way, but with Newt’s encouragements he makes it to them.

His tongue lolls out of his mouth proudly. A blue ribbon is wrapped around his neck, topped with a bow. Newt crouches down and holds out his hand, and the puppy comes forward to accept the petting and the praise, his little tail wagging quickly throughout it all.  

“Newt…”

Said man gathers the little puppy in his arms. The dog yips at him, and Newt ducks his head, avoiding Graves’ eyes as nervousness makes him hesitate. “I - I thought you’d like him. It’s a Doberman.”

A Doberman. A dog. Newt got him a dog for Christmas -

Percival had confessed to always wanting one as a kid.

He was lonely then. His parents believed it was preferable that he be homeschooled . Thus, as an only child, all Percival had to entertain himself (when he was granted that right) was his own imagination. But he had longed for company fiercely.

When the old tabby cat belonging to his mom died, he waited for his birthday and asked, with childish hope, for a dog.

His mother seemed amenable to the idea, although hesitant. She pictured a dog slobbering and ruining all her precious furniture. She worried Percival would be distracted from his studies if he had to care for an animal.

His father had scoffed, even though Percival showed him how serious he was about his wish. He delved nose deep into books about dogs describing their characteristics. He tooks his time picking out the race he thought would please both him and his parents the best, and he asked again.

Uselessly, it turned out.  

His parents were adamant in telling him that he wouldn’t be able to care for a living, breathing creature when he was still so young himself. Both of them then told him they were way too busy to care for a dog, should Percival tire of it, which he would. They wouldn't listen to his protests.

“And the smell,” his mom added, wrinkling her nose. “Heaven’s sake, _no_. And don't they shed? No, Percival. You’ll be going to Illvermony soon anyway - what will you do with the dog then? Give him up?”

Reluctantly, Percival had to admit that she was right.

But even as he agreed, he promised himself that no matter what, he would have a dog once he was older.

Something which he had been seriously pondering for Christmas, 1926, until Grindelwald captured him.

Afterwards, he was unable to care for himself.

He was prone to bouts of destructive, violent anger, followed by an exhaustion so great he could barely muster up the strength to leave his bed on bad days.  

He’d given up on the idea of a dog. He was too damaged, too dangerous.

And Newt, out of love, out of _trust_ , just gave him a puppy.

“Please don’t cry,” Newt says softly. Percival smiles weakly, tears stinging at his eyes all the same - but they’re from happiness, not pain.

It’s perfect. _Newt_ is perfect.

“I didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with you,” he says, voice rough.

“Oh.” Tension bleeds from Newt's shoulders, and his smile is wide and bright when he meets Percival's eyes once more. “I thought it’d be a perfect fit - this breed care a lot about their families, they’re very protective, though restless. He could accompany you into the field once he’s all grown up, scare criminals away properly. Right, pup?”

The dog barks playfully at being paid attention to, and Percival chuckles.

“It was a good idea, then?” Newt asks happily.

“It’s perfect,” Percival replies softly. He does feel a bit overwhelmed, because - a puppy. God, but he can see them already : Newt and him playing with the pup inside the case, or curled up in front of a warm fire with the dog at their feet, keeping watch.

Grindelwald had caught him unaware. With the dog at his side, he thinks that it could never happen again. That even if he is sleeping soundly at night, vulnerable, the dog will be there to watch over him and his family.

A weight he hadn’t been aware existed lifts from his shoulders, and he can breathe a little easier. His house, his friends, his love - they will all be protected, even if he fails to be here to do so.

“He is perfect,” he repeats, and he means every word of it.

-

They bring the puppy back with them to the living-room. He is still in Newt’s arms, turning his head this way and that, taking in his new surroundings with big round eyes. Presents are piled beneath the Christmas tree, which shines with the light of a hundred candles. With a snap of his fingers, Graves sparks a fire in the fireplace as well, basking the room in a warm glow.

Newt bends to let the puppy down on the floor. Instead of running away like Graves would expect him to, he looks back at Newt, as though waiting for an order.

“Go,” Newt says, and the puppy does. He walks obediently to the Christmas tree, until he is right next to Graves’ little pile of presents. “Sit. Good boy.”

The puppy barks again, and Newt says, “You should give him a name now.”

“Faith.”

It’s the first thing that comes to Percival’s mind, yet even as he says it, he cannot imagine anything more perfect.

“Faith,” Newt echoes. They both look at the puppy, who’s staying in place, his little tail thumping on the floor once he sees they’re paying attention to him again.

Percival crouches down and holds out his hands. “C’me here, boy.”

“Faith,” Newt says, trying out the name as the puppy decides to slobber all over Graves’ hand. “I _love_ it. Certainly better than Bernard.”

Graves laughs. “Of course you wanted to call him a horrid name like Bernard,” he says, happiness showing on every line of his face. His eyes wrinkle merrily at the corners, his cheeks glow, his eyes sparkle with delight.

He is _gorgeous._

Newt's chest tightens, as he realizes how much Percival has progressed ever since they found each other.

-

_You are enough._

_You are alive._

_You have survived._

-

He is _in love._

He is gifted.

He is loved in return - he is adored.

He is wanted.

Graves isn’t useless or invisible anymore. In that instant, despair is long gone - chased away by feelings of trust, and respect, and devotion.

Life thrums through his veins, a quick tempo Newt makes sure to feel, sometimes, beneath his fingers - if only to reassure himself that Percival is there, with him. That he _exists_. That he simply is.

Newt is not a religious man. But privately, he can admit that, perhaps -- Percival's prayers never went unheard after all. And he is ever grateful to God, for making his and Percival's life intertwine just so, because he cannot imagine happiness is anything less than what he is living now with this man.


End file.
